Nonograms
by smallrepose
Summary: A post-game drabble for each of the endings of Ib, named after the games we play. Some dark, some fluffy.
1. Knights and Knaves

**- Knights and Knaves -**

~Ib All Alone~

* * *

Garry?

Garry, what's wrong?

We're going home now, aren't we? Mama says she found a way out. I was really scared when I saw mama and papa together before, but I'm okay now.  


Now that mama's here, maybe we can see the rest of the gallery together.

What do you mean, Garry? But mama's right there. See? Isn't she pretty? Papa says that I look a lot like her when she was little, but I don't know. I think mama's a lot prettier than me.

But grown ups don't lie, do they, Garry? Other kids do sometimes, but grown ups don't lie.

Garry? Garry, why do you look so scared? Don't be scared. I'm here too. I'll protect you. Mama sings to me when I have bad dreams, and they go away for a while. Papa tells me to make friends with the scary things in my dreams instead, but I don't really know what he means. It doesn't matter, though. Papa's quiet, but he says good things that I'll understand when I'm older. Should I sing for you too, Garry? I'm not too good at it, but I can try. If it'll make you feel better, I'll practise a lot. I'll practise a lot, and then, maybe.

Then, maybe...maybe you won't look so uncomfortable anymore.

But, Garry, you know...I feel kind of tired now. I feel really tired, but...I don't know why. It's been a really long day, I guess.

I think I'll just sleep for a while now.

When I wake up, maybe we can have those hamburger candies you were talking about? We can talk some more, and we could do crosswords. I'm not good with words, so Papa helps me a lot, but I'm getting better at it. That would be...What was that word..? Nice. Yeah, that'd be nice.

But, I'm a little sleepy, now, so...is it okay if we wait 'til tomorrow?

Can you stay with me 'til then?

Promise?

I can believe you if you promise, Garry.

Grown ups don't lie.

* * *

**A/N:** The game Ib and its characters do not belong to me.


	2. Tag

**- Tag -**

~A Painting's Demise~

* * *

The doll sits still and watches.

The girl has been running around for a while now, and it stares at her, confused.

Why is she running around for so long? Won't she get tired? She doesn't belong in our place anymore, so she can get worn out now. She'll get hungry soon, and she'll want to drink. But this is the not-world, Mary. There's nothing living in this place.

Humans are so weak and stupid. It's a lot more fun to be a doll instead.

A sharp, furious twinge of annoyance, and then it is gone. The doll tilts its head to one side as she tries the door again, rattling it desperately and crying out in short, choking sobs.

Oh Mary, you've tried the door already.

You should know better than that.

Hey, but she's turning around now, banging the window. Oh, look, you've made a crack in it. The windows look so plain, don't they, Mary? Wouldn't it be nice if we had some paint to colour it in?

Paint lasts for too long though, it's boring. The blood you've stolen, however...

It's such a pretty colour, don't you think?

The doll begins to rock back and forth as the girl starts running again, stumbling, reaching, falling. It's dark now, and the only sounds that she can hear are her own broken cries and the hollow echo of something dripping, dripping.

Mary was always good at hunting things. She made traps and wove tricks, she cajoled and smiled and snared, and then, when she had them in her grasp, she would devour them, slowly, mindlessly.

Yes, you were always good at hunting things, Mary.

But you've stayed in the Safe Place for too long.

You're not very good at running away.

Abruptly, the doll swings upside-down and, horrifically, its face splits into a wide, grotesque grin.

Well, then.

Come on, Mary.

I'm 'It'.

* * *

**A/N:** Because, in Ib, you play a _lot_ of tag. With, you know, headless dummies, red ladies, psychotic girls brandishing palette knives...


	3. Odd One Out

**- Odd One Out -**

~Forgotten Portrait~

* * *

Ib wakes up to the memory of a blue rose in her hands.

Her parents are, of course, delighted and charmed when she asks for some white roses and dye, and happily oblige, thinking that perhaps she will grow into the artist they hoped she'd be one day.

First she stains the white roses with dye, and watches the blue flowers bloom beautifully before her eyes, and is content. But then she remembers the Queen of Hearts and her laughable, painted roses, and she frowns and decides to try again.

This time, she plants the seeds herself, nurtures them, loves them, and when they are ready, soaks the flower roots with blue dye, and prays. Her mother tells her that the lilac roses are very beautiful, but Ib only turns away and goes to her father's study to search again.

The thought becomes a wish, and the wish an obsession, and her father's constant reassurances that it is just a harmless past-time, that it will pass, are tinged with uncertainty. She discovers that there is a way to create a blue rose through genetic modification, and she is elated, immersing herself deeper into her studies.

In the following years, she becomes a part of researchers, carefully inserts another pigment into another flower. Whispers of admiration follow her wherever she goes, but she is unsatisfied, casts the dark burgundy rose aside, tries again. She can't explain why it is so important, why it matters so much - only that she _must_, she _has to make one_, otherwise...what? She can't quite remember.

But it doesn't matter.

Today, she will try again.

Change the dye, find the interference, repress it, mix the colours together, rearrange the code, do it differently, do it right, do it again. Again, again, again.

But, at the end of another day, the lights flicker off one by one, until there is only the sound of muffled footsteps echoing down the halls, and a dimly lit darkness that itches at the back of her mind.

She gazes down at the rose she has created once more, and, smoothing the flower between her fingers, crushes it in her hands, and lets the lavender petals tumble and fall gently onto the mirror-shine of the floor.

* * *

**A/N: **The original didn't quite match the feeling that was left behind from this ending, so it was rewritten into this one.


	4. La Galette des Rois

**- La Galette des Rois -**

~Welcome to the World of Guertena~

* * *

'Yay! I'm Queen for the day!'

Mary holds up the little coin in her palm and waves it in glee, taking up the make-shift crown with a 'thaaaank you!' and seating it gracefully in her hair. She skips up to an imaginary mirror on the wall and does a twirl, her mouth widening into a sweet smile.

It is childlike, and innocent, with all the purity of an infant child.

The smile of Mary is a truly terrifying thing to lay eyes on.

A crash resounds at the back of the room, and she spins around, the crown wobbling on her head.

'Oh, Garry, you're so clumsy!' she scolds, sweeping up her skirts to walk up to him. He swings gently back and forth as she daintily scoops the cake slice back onto its plate and, stretching up on tip-toes, balances it precariously atop his head once more. He doesn't seem to mind it much. He doesn't seem to mind anything anymore.

'Hmm? What's wrong, Ib? Aren't you hungry?' She abandons Garry to stand in front of the girl on the floor, hands on hips. 'Didn't your mama ever tell you that it's no good to be picky? Come on, Ib, eat up! It was made just for you, you know! Hey, are you listening to me? Come now, do as I say!'

But Ib's glassy eyes stare unseeingly back, and something furious bubbles upwards, and Mary hurls the plate into pieces against the wall, screaming shrilly,

'DO AS I SAY! I AM THE _QUEEN!'_

There are a few moments of murderous stillness, stifled only by the sound of fury-induced heaving. But then she is silent and lies down quietly next to Ib, her hair pooling around her face in an expanse of blue, like a drowned Ophelia, or a mermaid about to turn to foam.

'Maybe...' she murmurs. 'Maybe if I stuffed you with paint, you'd move. I could fill you with nice things, like pictures and flowers and blue dolls. But then you wouldn't be real anymore, huh, Ib? And we'll have to take out all of your insides first, right? Or else you'll burst...' She begins to giggle. 'Like a water balloon...'

A snort, and then she is cackling hysterically, a high-pitched, uncontrollable noise that suffocates the room.

'Alright!' She springs up, straightening her make-shift crown, and her skirt whirls in a princess-like pirouette. 'What shall we play next?'

* * *

**A/N: **In another version of La Galette des Rois, getting the coin or figurine in your slice makes you the King or Queen of the day.


	5. Treasure Hunt

**- Treasure Hunt -**

~Memory's Crannies~

* * *

There is someone whose name I can't remember.

Someone I know, from another time, or another life, perhaps.

I look for him in the edges of my dreams, the spaces in between my memories.

A smell of lemon candy and a cracked, cold hand. A warm presence, the sound of a kind voice. If I squint, I find the pale outline of a cheek, gentleness hidden in the corners of a smile. They fall like fragments, or fragments of a fragment, pieces slotting together to make up another piece.

Today, I walk through the white halls of another exhibit, another gallery, searching, looking for the traces of him that always linger in paintings and sculptures.

The milk puzzle hanging on the wall makes me thoughtful, the collage of fire makes me confused, and it's all part of the knowing, somehow, but I can't remember why.

It feels nostalgic, and a little sad. Nostalgic, because there's a nice kind of quiet here, the quiet that settles in between conscious awareness and sleep, the kind of quiet you feel when someone gathers up your hands on a cold day and blows them warm. Sad, because you never know how precious it was then, and when you do, you rarely find it again.

I stop to look at the painting of a shedding zinnia - _I wonder if you have such a beautiful rose in your heart, Ib? _- and I smile, wondering who said it. This one is different, its colours vibrant, lively - but the style is old, the brush strokes belonging to the technique of years past, where paintings began in vision, continued with memory, ended with heart. Painted dew hangs delicately on dark leaves, young red petals burst with life as they lie open, as if quietly waiting for something.

It is incredibly beautiful.

'Have you found one you like?'

And I look up, a memory rustles, and the world shifts underneath my feet.

It's the smell of lemons that I remember the best, but now that I see him, it's as if I'm vividly re-remembering the details of his face. His eyes are wide as he stares at me, and his hair falls like petals, a little thinner, shorter than I know. The lines around his eyes make me want to laugh, his suit makes me feel shy. Everything is different - nothing has changed.

And then, all of a sudden, his eyes are darting away and he coughs awkwardly, cheeks flushing bright red as he stammers,

'Ah, I do apologise, I haven't even asked your name. My, how rude of me.' He laughs, nervously, and I feel a twinge of familiarity, like an echo of an exchange we've had before, and I want to cry, or smile, or dance.

He steals a glance at me from under his hair, and his eyes meet mine, and I recognise, and he understands.

He's been looking for me too.

'Well...' A hand brushes the back of his neck, his expression is shy. 'My name is Garry.'

I see gentleness hiding in the corners of his smile, and the world brightens. _I've found you. Finally, I've found you._

'Ib,' I reply, holding out my hand. 'Nice to meet you.'

'Yes.' And the word is a confession, a promise, or an amen. He reaches out and, gently, clasps his hand in mine. 'Nice to meet you.'

* * *

**A/N: **Set 13 years after the events of the gallery.


	6. Loves Me, Loves Me Not

**- Loves Me, Loves Me Not -**

~Together Forever~

* * *

STOP IT! No, no, _no_, it's okay, I'm okay, I'm fine, see? See, I'm smiling. I'm smiling, Ib, there's nothing to worry about. I'm good, _great_. Right? Right. Look at me!

She knows.

She _knows._

She KNOWS.

'Mary?'

What? Is something wrong?

Nothing's wrong, Ib. Nothing at all. Why? Do you think there's something wrong? Do you? You remember something, don't you? Don't lie to me..._don't lie to me!_

I can tell, see? You all think I'm silly and stupid, don't give me that innocent look, I _know_, I KNOW YOU DO, but I'm smart, I can tell when you lie. You know how much I hate it when people lie to me. I'll drag it out of you, hide it, burn it, BURN IT, like you want to burn _me_, I know you want to, but you can't, because I...I can _bleed_ now and mommy and daddy will get angry and, and they'll _hate _you, they'll hate you forever and ever, but you want to do it, don't you, Ib? Then do it. _Do it. _DO IT NOW!

I'm afraid. I'm afraid. Let me out of here, let me _out. _DON'T LOOK AT ME. Don't..._don't touch me!_

'M-Mary?'

That's right, that's my name, isn't it? Mommy...mommy gave me that name, don't you know? You believe me, don't you? Right, Ib? I...I don't look like daddy or mommy but that's...that's because I'm special. That's right, _I'm_ the special one, the precious one, everyone loves Mary, everyone knows who Mary is, but you - you're just like everyone else, you're...you're _normal_ and NOT special and there's nothing interesting or weird or strange or odd or _freaky _about you and STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT. STOP IT, STOP -

* * *

'Mary?'

A pause. She tries again -

'Mary, are you okay?'

Shallow breathing.

'Yeah.'

She gulps in the air. Breathes.

'Yeah, I'm okay.'

* * *

**A/N:** Mary talking to a mirror.


End file.
